


You Can't Drown in Blue Eyes

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble, M/M, You can pretend they're countries or humans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivan reflects on Alfred's eyes and suppresses what he's feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Drown in Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valorikei](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Valorikei).



> This is my first timing uploading any writing of mine since I was eleven or twelve.It's for Valorikei, a super cute RusAme shipper who's also really super cute. The theme derives from looking at Val's eyes and briefly comparing them to mine (which are blue). That thought rapidly derailed into, "Guess who also has blue eyes? Alfred. Guess who wants to bed Alfed? Ivan. Guess who likes RusAme as much as you? Val."
> 
> And so...This occurred. Sorry if it's melodramatic or cliche.

Despite the media’s aggressive pandering to the ideal of those baby blue eyes, you had never been sold. You claimed to like them dark and rich, as if you were peering into a well of intrigue. Blue eyes didn't possess that same endless depth; they couldn't entangle onlookers in overwhelming, obscure waters. You tell yourself you can’t drown in blue eyes. 

His blue eyes fail to obfuscate your breath. They are a lake frozen over, shallow and stagnant. His booming, ingratiating laugh sears through you like a howling blizzard. As he passes, his whispered threats nip the red curvature of your ear, casting a winter breeze that lingers on your neck. You envision clawing out his eyes, hacking away at the ice till the surface brims with tears, revealing a depth of him you desperately need to believe you can reach. You suppress this urge in public, though today your fists make it as far up as his shoulders before you force them to your sides with a falsely apologetic smile. If he notices, his dispassionate temper hints no more suspicion than usual.

It actually tortures, the power he yields over you. It downright _kills_ to so much as humor he may not even be aware. You are lying in bed, suffering a 2-AM clarity in early November. You entertain the sensation of his body heat emanating against your skin. He would be a natural furnace. You recall his intense warmth that permeated your tent back in the Russian Federation. It had been the first time everything hadn't felt horribly amiss since the war. That time is long gone. You abhor every moment now between you that’s been camouflaged in thin, frosty film barely concealing the fire brewing. A draft wafts in and you shiver, quickly pulling the extra blanket above your shoulders. Tonight you dream of cold, blue eyes.


End file.
